


A Second Chance

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s04e02 The Lying Detective, Fix-It of Sorts, Forgiveness, Greg Lestrade is a Good Friend, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Not Canon Compliant, Second Chances, Sherlock Refuses To Be A Damsel In Distress, Sibling Incest, Supernatural Elements, Temporary Character Death, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:41:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26727586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: What if John had not come to save Sherlock from Culverton Smith? What if Sherlock died? And what if he was instantly sent back to make it better the second time?
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 73
Kudos: 149





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts).



> Inspired by: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26519074 
> 
> With heartfelt thanks to my dear SlytherinsDragon, who might have been a bit pissed off about a certain twist of this story but keeps being my supportive friend :)

_Shit_ …

Is this it then?

He is floating…

Floating through the white tunnel those who had managed to come back always described. There is nothing but this bright light.

He’s dead then...

Smith killed him.

“ _Go to hell, Sherlock,”_ Mary had said on the DVD. To save John, he had been supposed to risk his life for real so John could come save him.

John did not come, obviously… Or he came too late.

Sherlock has no idea what he’s feeling. He cannot see his own body. He hears nothing. Total silence is engulfing him. Will there be someone waiting on the other side, he vaguely thinks. Or does being dead mean to float in nothing but light for eternity?

And then, suddenly, he reaches an actual gate. It looks like a physical item, made of metal, stainless, shiny metal. Gold? A barrier in the light – separating him from what? And then he notices a man, dressed in white, standing in front of the gate.

There is no way to describe his face. It is completely blurry. Perhaps this is just a dream? There is no God after all. No heaven. He is just dreaming. Or hallucinating from the lack of oxygen. Soon John will come to save him from being suffocated. He has to! Mary said he would! In her own, weird way...

But the blurry face manages to look utterly displeased. “Sherlock Holmes. You are not due.” His voice is as nondescript as his appearance. But by the sound of it, he is not amused.

Even if this is a dream, he feels he has to play along. “Great. Send me back then.” His own voice sounds foreign to his own ears. It almost sounds – metallic. And have his lips even moved?

“And then what?” the man shoots back. “You’re going to risk your life again for someone who is not worth it?”

Sherlock wants to throw some harsh words back at him but then… he feels like crumbling. “He didn’t come?” After all he had done for him and Mary?

“No. Your dear John Watson has had enough of you. Even after watching this video after he left you in that hospital, he preferred leaving you to your destiny. So you died. And I would suggest stopping to try and convince yourself that I’m a hallucination. I am not.”

So it’s all over. John has given up on him and let him die. The heart that can’t be beating in his chest anymore still feels like it’s breaking.

“So many wrong decisions,” tuts the blurry man. “You hurt someone who always wanted your best, time after time, and trusted and supported those who betrayed you.”

He is right. Mary… He has made a vow to protect her along with John and her unborn child – and she shot him dead, and only his strong feelings for John had gotten him back that time. Molly… Who always pretended to like him but had nothing better to do than taking John's side, shutting him out after Mary’s death. Perhaps she wants to take her place? As Rosie’s mother and John’s wife? Knowing that she will never have him, Sherlock? And John… The ultimate betrayal. Sherlock has done everything for him, including killing someone and putting his actual life on the line for the second time now, just to be let down. Obviously, John is done with saving his life, even if he had risked it just for him – and John had even known that… It is devastating.

“I’ll make you an offer, since you seem to understand, and since you have come here way before your time,” says God (?). “I will give you one more chance to make it better. To show the one person who has always been on your side that you appreciate their feelings. And to stand up for yourself towards the ones who have failed you.”

And Sherlock has no doubt who the one person is, the person he has wronged again and again. “What if it’s too late for that already?” he asks, feeling hopeless.

“It is not. But I will send you back to the moment where you were feeling the worst – well, before you were being killed, that is… Do it better this time.”

###

And the next moment, Sherlock is standing in that awful room in the St. Caedwalla’s hospital again, wielding the scalpel. He has only enough time to glance at Smith, who pretends to be shocked by this scene but is enjoying himself in reality, his daughter, who really is terrified by it, and John, who is now grabbing his arm and knocks the scalpel out of his hand.

He has a split second to notice that it should have been over in this moment. There had been no reason for John to hit him – he had let go of the deadly weapon immediately. Why had he not realised that the last time? John had _wanted_ to hit him. He had been _gagging_ for a chance to get back at him, to take revenge, he understands and he winces when John slaps him in the face.

Then John’s fist connects with his frontal bone, directly over the left eye, and he stumbles backwards, blood dribbling into his eye. He feels just like the first time he had taken this beating – his body ready to give up, to actually pass out and die… Not from the beating but the organ failure he had caused with the drugs and the fact he had barely eaten anything. Over weeks… All for John. All for the man who is now out for giving him the thrashing of his life.

But this time, Sherlock hits back. With the bit of strength that is left in his pained body, he chins John, sending him flying backwards in surprise. The good doctor is not used to being hit back. His eyes are opened in surprise but before he can say anything, Sherlock hisses at him, “Fuck you, John. You disarmed me – what more do you want?” His fist is hurting and he is torn between regret – not for the blow itself but for the friendship that it certainly ends for good – and triumph as he has taken his life into his own hand quite literally now.

“You… You killed Mary,” John accuses when he has recovered from his surprise. And he, the army doctor made of stern stuff, seems to be offended and angry that Sherlock had dared hit back more than anything else.

Yes. Just like he had thought… “No, I didn’t. I was careless in what I said. I should have shut up. But I did _no_ t pull the trigger, and I did _not_ ask her to jump in the way of the bullet. And,” he adds when John, his eyes narrowed in wrath now, his chin swelling from the blow just like the skin beneath Sherlock's left eye is reacting to the contact with John’s fist, “she owed me. For basically killing me!”

“She… She had a reason to -…”

“Oh yes? She said she had aimed away from my heart. But I still died!” thunders Sherlock. “The doctors had given me up. I came back from the dead, this time for real, to protect you from her. And you hated her for doing it, remember? And suddenly she was the love of your life? You ignored her for half a year even though she was expecting your child, and then, bam, she is everything to you so you have to beat me up for my crime of doing deductions? Does that make any sense?!”

John is shaking his head violently, his look unsteady. He knows that Sherlock is right of course. “That… That doesn’t matter,” he yells, irrationally.

Of course – John Watson doesn’t make any mistakes. And if he does, he never admits them.

“God,” Sherlock spits out. “Why was I stupid enough to do all that for you? _‘Go to hell’_ , Mary said. Yes, on a fucking DVD, don’t ask me how she sent it after she was dead… _‘Go to hell’_ , right? I’m out of this. _Go to hell, John_. Perhaps you will meet her there again.”

His outburst has totally exhausted him but he knows he has to get out of here. He drags himself towards the door, ignoring Smith’s irritated grin and the concerned looks of Faith, the woman he had never met before, as well as John’s curses, and stumbles through the corridors until he finds the exit. He slumps down on the stairs and pulls out his phone. He scrolls through his contacts and chooses one he has rarely ever picked.

He only has to wait for a second until his call is accepted.

“ _Yes, Sherlock?”_

“Mycroft. I need your help. Culverton Smith. He’s a serial killer. And I… am probably dying… Kidney failure… I’m at St. Caedwalla’s but I can’t stay here – it is basically _his_ hospital.” Perhaps Mycroft had already known where he was, perhaps not. But he will know what to do.

He passes out after hearing, _“I’m on my way. Stay where you are. I’ll take care of everything.”_

###

When he wakes up, blinking against bright light, he startles for a moment, trying to sit up. He has no idea where he is and he fears he might be in St. Caedwalla’s after all – even though the logical part of his mind tells him that he wouldn’t have woken up if he had really been brought to a room of Smith’s playground.

But then he realises that he is, in fact, in St. Barts. He relaxes back into the pillows.

There are flowers on the bed stand. Mrs Hudson, without a doubt. The room with its yellow walls and turquoise coloured curtains looks friendly and calm. But he is alone.

Well, he has no idea for how long he had been off. He is attached to an IV bag, of course. He can feel the catheter in his penis.

Nobody has to tell him this has been a close call. He had worked himself into the ground. For nothing… And now he suffers from withdrawal and all the bullshit he had done to his body.

And from losing his best friend… He can feel that John has not been here. And why would he? There is nothing more to say.

Sherlock closes his eyes again. The exhaustion in his bones feels overwhelming and he succumbs to it gratefully.

###

The next time he opens his eyes, the room is dark apart from the dim light that creeps in from under the door.

He can feel a presence in his room. A tall, dark shadow is just so visible, standing at the far end of the bed. Even if the person wasn’t so tall, he wouldn’t have feared that it could be Smith, trying to get him. He trusts his brother to have taken care of him.

And now he is here to watch over him.

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispers. “Was he arrested? Smith?”

“He is confessing to Lestrade. He has been doing so for two full days.” Mycroft’s voice is soft and calm.

Which tells Sherlock that he had indeed lost some time. He is feeling better now. More alive. “How did you get him?”

“I sent him someone he couldn’t resist. Who is very good at making people talk.”

“Anthea?” Whatever her real name is. Sherlock has never been told.

“Indeed.”

Sherlock smiles in the darkness. “Do I want to know what she did to him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Yeah. And… John?”

“I spoke to him myself.” Mycroft’s voice sounds steely now.

Sherlock had told him nothing about John’s attack but his brother had seen his face. And Smith would have told Anthea… He had a field day watching them after all.

“His chin was so swollen that I hardly understood him,” Mycroft continues, a bit of glee in his voice. “But eventually, he told me everything.”

Sherlock stays silent for a long moment. He had not enjoyed this. Hitting back. But he doesn’t regret it. He shouldn’t have needed some obscure heavenly creature to tell him that he can’t accept such a treatment, especially not from the man who had once called him his best friend.

“You never met our grandmother. Mummy’s mother,” Mycroft says, walking around the bed.

Sherlock is confused by his change of subject. “No. She died a year before I was born. What-…”

“She was a very wise woman. She always listened to me and gave advice. As you can imagine, I wasn’t the easiest boy to be around but she was always there for me. And I will always remember one thing she told me several times.”

Sherlock is listening closely. His brother had never mentioned their grandma. Sherlock would have never thought that Mycroft had a close relationship with any of their relatives. He imagines little Mycroft, the too-smart, awkward little boy in a house of smart but rather normal people. Somehow it feels nice to know that he hadn’t been all alone.

“She said, _‘Be the hammer, Mycroft, not the nail.’_ ”

And Sherlock understands that there has not been a change of subject after all. And he had been the nail for the Watsons long enough. It had felt quite good to be the hammer for once… But in fact, Mycroft is a fine one to talk… “You never were,” he states, quietly. “You always were the nail for me.” He sees himself pushing Mycroft against a wall, twisting his arm. Drugging him. All the times when he had insulted Mycroft by saying hurtful, usually not even remotely justified things. Yes. He was the hammer – and a full-on arsehole.

“Well. She also said, _‘Pick your battles.’_ ”

His words touch Sherlock deeply. Yes. Mycroft had always been the one to take all the shit from him – because he has always cared for him. And in opposition to John, he had never lashed out at him for it. He knows he should say sorry. But then – Mycroft can deduce that he does feel sorry, even in this almost complete darkness. His tone has just proven that – soft and indulgent, and so much kinder than he deserves. “She seems to have been full of wisdom indeed,” Sherlock settles for.

“She was great. I wish you had met her.”

Perhaps he would have – if he had gone on the other side of that gate after all… Perhaps she had been waiting for him. The thought makes him feel both strangely touched and disturbed. “Yes. It seems I did miss something.” When has he ever had such a conversation with his brother before? Here, in the dark of a hospital room, having literally escaped death, it feels like being in another world. Sherlock wonders what Mycroft would say if he knew what had happened to him. He would never believe it… Did he believe it himself? Has he really lived through that ugly confrontation with John twice? Or has it been some kind of déjà-vu, following a hallucination about… God?

In the end, it doesn’t matter. He has made the right choice. But… “Mycroft…”

“Yes? John will be okay. I didn’t touch him. He was shaken enough by you having rearranged his face… Nice blow by the way.”

Sherlock can’t help but grin even though it’s not really funny. “No. I mean… The daughter. Faith. I was so sure I had met her but she did look different. Someone came to me, pretending to be her.” It is the only explanation. He had not hallucinated meeting that woman. It had just not really been the real Faith.

“Yes. She was… your sister.”

Perhaps this conversation is a hallucination as well. Perhaps he has never woken up. Or he has died indeed and landed in a weird parallel world.

“It’s true, Sherlock. John has made her acquaintance, too. I realised it when after my conversation with him, Anthea mentioned that Faith had said – when she was finished crying – that you believed to have met her before.”

He is missing something. Sherlock can’t remember to have been that confused ever before.

Mycroft goes on speaking. “John mentioned that he had cheated on his wife. It was his excuse for going all crazy after her death. He was feeling guilty for having fooled around with a stranger on a bus. It seemed so off for him. I still didn’t connect the dots at this point. I would have never imagined that she could do that. I was very, very blind. And she was behind Moriarty and that video, too. I should have known that from the start, sorry.”

“Mycroft. You realise that you are not making any sense?” This is even too crazy for a hallucination...

The older man sighs. “Apologies. Of course it must seem like this to you.” He finally sits down on one of the visitor chairs. “It’s time to stop with the lies. So, if you’re ready, I will tell you the story of the East Wind – and Redbeard.”

###

Sherlock rubs his eyes after yawning and stretching as thoroughly as possible. It’s morning again and he is alone. So far, so normal – if being hospitalized can ever feel even remotely normal. Which it has quite a few times, actually… Being injured or seriously ill or just suffering from an overdose is nothing out of the ordinary for him after all. One can get used to basically everything, it seems.

But when has it become his life to keep on asking himself whether certain situations had really happened? Had Mycroft even been here? And had he really told him that they had a younger sister, who had apparently murdered Sherlock's friend Redbeard with only about six years – the friend who had not been a dog like Sherlock had believed for thirty years but a little boy? Such things simply don’t happen. Even in a life filled with unusual situations and crazy developments this is something to chew on…

It explains a lot though. Especially Faith who wasn’t Faith. And she had targeted John, too. What for? What had her plans been? After all the things Mycroft had told him, he is rather certain that these plans wouldn’t have ended very pleasantly… Well, she is finished now. As soon as Mycroft had suspected that it could have been her to pretend to be those two women, he had ordered a helicopter that had brought him to the prison in which she has been all her life. And Mycroft had been right. She’d had the entire staff under her control. She had been walking free whenever she had felt an itch to do so.

Sherlock can imagine how Mycroft had looked when he had realised all that. He must have been fuming. And he made sure that she will never play such games again. She had not admitted anything. Mycroft told him that she had, in fact, said nothing at all, but her looks of hatred for having been stopped had said it all.

Sherlock can remember her now. Very vaguely. But does he really recall the pretty little girl with the huge, cold eyes? Or are these wrong memories, created by Mycroft's explanations? Mycroft has no pictures of her as a child. But he has shown Sherlock some from the prison. Yes. This had been the woman who had pretended to be Faith.

‘ _I wouldn’t recommend meeting her,”_ Mycroft had said in the end.

Would he even want that? What for? To integrate her into the family? Mummy and Father think she’s dead. And Sherlock sees no reason to tell them the truth after all this time. What good would it do? They have enough trouble accepting their difficult sons the way they are. And they will freak out about having been lied to. He is sure that Mycroft wouldn’t appreciate that. Because no matter how much he had always been complaining about having to spend time with the parents, Sherlock knows that he likes to be the ‘good son’. And Sherlock has never had a problem with being the black sheep – even though he clearly is only second best in that regard as well. And now he knows that he has two siblings that are smarter than him…

He feels better than the day before but he won’t leave this room so soon. He feels like he needs it. The peace and quiet. He has slept a lot during the past days and there is no doubt that his neglected, badly treated body approves of it. He needs to get the drugs out of his system. And he has no plans to use again. For the first time, he is sure that he will not go down that path again. Drugs are bad. Period. Not even just for the many obvious reasons. The worst thing is that they have made him feel like a stranger in his own skin, in his own life. He had ulterior motives for his recent drug use though. Magnussen. Smith. John… He is sick and tired of doing that. And he doesn’t really think that he will ever be obsessed with something or someone in this way again, in this reckless, self-damaging way that made him crave being someone else, numbing himself or wiring himself up to reach a goal. It all feels stale now.

He is doing okay now. Alone has always protected him. At least more than certain people…

He does hope that Mycroft will return. Soon. Sherlock has a lot more questions.

And he doesn’t only remember Eurus now. He also remembers how close he and his brother had been before he had chosen to forget his own childhood… He can’t change anything about that. But God or Mr Hallucination or whoever he had been talking to had had a point. Mycroft cares about him and he is worth working on getting things right with him.

And he knows something else – with Mycroft having his back, he will never truly be alone.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock catches him on his way out. “Lestrade. Sneaking out?” he asks with a voice still raspy from sleeping. Mrs Hudson had been there in the early afternoon. Looking frail and worried. She had brought him chocolate – and had not mentioned John with any word.

The inspector turns to him. He looks awful – probably worse than Sherlock himself. Not that he has bothered to look into the bathroom mirror. He is glad he is allowed to use the loo again and has showered once but he has not felt like admiring his ragged looks...

Lestrade smiles wryly. “You were right, as usual. A serial killer he was. And he kept confessing until my ears were bleeding. How did your brother do that?”

Sherlock grins. “He has a secret weapon.” Mycroft could have handled Smith as a Secret Service matter if he had felt so inclined; he does have the power. But handing him over to the police has been his way of saying, _‘See, you didn't believe my little brother. Now have fun with the worst killer you have ever encountered.’_

“It looks like, yes. How are you, Sherlock? How did that happen? Why didn’t you come to me if you were feeling so bad?”

He has no idea. No idea about Sherlock's stupid-ass plan to make John save him. “It was just… to get Smith.”

“If that’s true, you should have gone to your brother at once.”

Yes. That would have been an option. But Sherlock had not seen it. Had he believed that Mycroft wouldn’t care? Would have told him to shut up? Like he had done with Magnussen? Mycroft had not been totally innocent of _that_ disaster after all… But he had certainly learned from it. He wouldn’t have ignored Sherlock’s plea about Smith. “Well. That’s what you get for wanting to do everything yourself,” he says, surprising Lestrade. And for wanting to fulfil the wish of a dead woman and for longing to save a friendship that had been beyond saving for months… if not years.

The grey-haired man smiles. “Such insight from you?” He turns serious at once. “But what happened? Smith said – you and John… There had been violence.”

And suddenly Sherlock wonders if the other people who had been in this autopsy room have some sort of blurred memory of the first time they had lived through this situation. Does John remember on some level that he had beaten Sherlock down? Kicked him even? Do Smith and Faith recall watching it? In their dreams maybe? “He hit me,” he admits. “I hit back.”

“I’m fucking glad you did. He blamed you for Mary’s death? That’s just stupid. I was there. She sacrificed herself for you.”

Which wouldn’t have been necessary if Sherlock hadn’t provoked Norbury like this. But who knows? She hadn’t had anything to lose anymore. There is a good chance that she would have pointed the gun at him either way. “Yeah. Still he did want to hammer home his point.” He involuntarily smiles at this thought. _‘Be the hammer, not the nail.’_ Yes. He had been fed up with being the nail for everybody named Watson.

Lestrade shakes his head. “I’d never thought he would take to violence towards you of all people. He was always, I don’t know, starstruck by you.”

Sherlock wonders if the cop has never witnessed John admonishing him to do better, to care more, to be… someone else. Strange. He has never thought about that. In fact, he had always been trying to be the man John had wanted him to be. Why? Why would he have to care about strangers? Does being a human mean having to make a fuss about every other human? Suddenly he thinks of Mycroft, saying _‘I’ve never been very good with them.’_ Neither had he, and he had never bothered about that until John came into his life, demanding him to be different. That ‘starstruck-phase’ hadn’t lasted very long…

“I was an idiot,” he says, surprising himself and Lestrade with it. An idiot to pretend being a man who suddenly gives a damn about others – he does care about his parents, and Mrs Hudson. And John. He did care about Mary. But he doesn’t approve of humanity itself and it’s okay because that’s how he is. He was an idiot to make a vow to protect people who had either never done anything for him – like Mary – or divided their time into being his best friend or his worst enemy to a point at which Sherlock hadn’t known what to expect anymore – like John. He has called himself a ‘high-functioning sociopath’ for so long. Maybe he is, maybe not. But he still is that socially awkward man who doesn’t feel well when he’s among people. John had been the exception. But the John who had been this exception does no longer exist. At least he had not seen anything from him for a long time. “I wanted to please them. Why?”

“You certainly never wanted to please _me_ ,” says Lestrade, but there is no malice in his tone, quite the opposite. He wants to cheer him up. And Sherlock realises that Mycroft is not the only man he had treated a lot worse than he had deserved.

“Why would I, Graham?” he asks, and he winks when Lestrade’s face twitches in slight pain.

The grin that follows makes Sherlock's heart feel warm. “Got me. But really – call me Graham, or Gus, or whatever other name your perfect brain conjures up for me. I will still listen to what you have to tell me. I did bring you something.” He gestures at the bedside table and Sherlock turns his head and sees a pile of folders. “Cold cases. Just in case you’re bored out of your mind and need something to do.”

He feels stupidly touched. In fact, he is close to crying.

Lestrade sees it and spontaneously reaches out and pats his hand. “It’s alright, lad. We are not all like John. Your brother and I… We will still be there when he’s long gone.”

“He already is.” Sherlock doesn’t even know if it still hurts. Perhaps a bit. Perhaps more. He misses the man John had been before The Fall.

“Wouldn’t bet on it. Haven’t seen him yet, was too busy with Smith.” His face says that he does want to see the doctor to have a few chosen words with him.

“My brother told him off already.”

Lestrade grins. “I bet. Dear John still has all of his teeth?”

Sherlock smiles wryly. “He hasn’t shown up so I couldn’t count them. But I guess so. Except for the ones that might be a bit loose now because of the blow he got from me.”

“Suits him right. Okay. I need to go but I will come back tomorrow, okay? How long will you have to stay here?”

“Probably another two days.” He is not even that keen on escaping. It’s peaceful here. Safe. And… Mycroft will come back. He knows it. Of course he could see his brother outside of this hospital anytime. But it feels like… neutral grounds. Perhaps the best they can have for starting to build up something that doesn’t resemble their hostile relationship of the past decades.

Lestrade nods. “Fine. You do look better than on the first day.”

“You’ve been here before?”

“Of course. We all have. Mrs Hudson. Molly.”

Molly… He has not even wasted a thought on her. But she works in this hospital. Had he really always been sleeping when she dropped by? It doesn’t matter. He has something more important on his mind. “I… Thank you. I just don’t know if… I want to go on. With the cases. I mean, looking at photographs and helping with the evidence – I will always do that. But…” He just doesn’t see himself running after criminals anymore. Perhaps that will change again when his body has regained its strength. He is not an old man. But somehow he is rather sure that this phase of his life is over.

Lestrade smiles. “I understand that. You’ve been through so much. Physically and emotionally. Because I know you can feel emotion. Perhaps it’s time to focus on experiencing some nice ones.”

“Are you volunteering?”

The cop laughs out loud. “God no. That would be my death. I mean, you’re pretty and all… at least when your face doesn’t look like there’s some bushes growing on it. But I like boobs.”

“Can’t offer them,” Sherlock says, dryly. And he doesn’t want any… Not owning them, not touching them. “That’s nothing for me. Love. Relationships. Look where it gets people…”

“Well, as I said – we’re not all John Watson… You’re great as you are. But I do think you could benefit from some love. We all can. Gotta go now, lad. See you tomorrow.”

“Yes. Thank you, Greg.”

Lestrade beams at him. “Two miracles in one sentence!”

“It was just a lucky guess.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Lestrade winks and then leaves. In the door, he stops again. “You’ve got my number, Sherlock. Whatever you need – I’m just a phone call away.”

“Don’t get sappy, Gus.”

Lestrade throws his hands into the air but he chuckles while he’s doing it, and Sherlock falls in. And then he is alone again but he does not feel lonely at all.

He looks at the bedside table – and takes one of the folders. A cold case to pass the time. Life is good.

Oh – and he has to shave before Mycroft comes. Somehow that seems very important. Even if they only talk in the dark again.

###

Time flies by for an hour while he is focusing on his work. He can feel that he is recovering. Not just physically. He feels more like himself.

He doesn’t fully register the knock at the door until it happens the second time. He looks up – and sees Molly standing in the door.

There had been a time when he had been rather fond of her. She had helped him, always. Of course her habit of making cow eyes at him had been annoying but she had never had the effrontery to actually tell him about her crush on him – her early attempts at asking him out to have ‘coffee’ aside. He had considered her a friend – but like with John, this friendship has run its course.

He can still see himself standing in front of John’s house, being told by her – twice, as if he was too stupid to understand it the first time – that John would have anyone but him to help him with his daughter. Of course he knows that she had been merely the bearer of bad news but he will never forget how he had been feeling at that moment. Beaten. Small. Bad. It was not this woman’s fault but he can't help it. She had been _his_ friend, had hardly paid attention to John when they had been at the morgue together. But this had changed with Mary becoming John’s fiancée already, he realises. The two women had gotten along well. It had obviously made her and John become friends, too. And then, after Mary’s death, she had been there for John, who had obviously been more important to her than Sherlock. It feels like a double betrayal… And if that sounds like the musings of a teenage girl who whines about her two friends meeting behind her back and probably talking bad about her, he doesn’t care. Certainly John had not had anything nice to say about him anymore. And since he had endured Molly’s presence, she must have agreed with him.

So when she steps into the room and says, “Hi, Sherlock,” he cruelly answers, “What do you want here? Shouldn’t you be with John, holding his hand?”

She blushes furiously and it is not just surprise about being unexpectedly attacked. She looks _caught_.

He gapes at her for a moment. How has he missed this? He had thought she’s been helping John with Rosie; she is her godmother after all. Comforting him. But now it’s clear that she had been doing a bit more than that with the suffering widower. And he had even thought she might want to take Mary’s place. He had forgotten about that again. But it seems to be true after all. “Oh. This is how things are now. Congratulations!”

Her thin lips are pressed into an even thinner line now. “That’s not your business. You have no right to be jealous.”

He snorts. “Jealous? Of whom?” A woman he had never wanted? A man who had been his best friend but hardly the man of his dreams? And who is coming around quite a bit for being a mourning widower – Sherlock's secret sister, now Molly… But of course he is totally shattered because of Mary’s death. The hypocrisy of this man has no limits.

She doesn’t reply but steps closer. “I thought you and John had reconciled. Why did you beat him up?”

Suddenly, he just feels tired again. He is not even surprised that John had only told her half of the truth, and the wrong half of course. He is a bit surprised that nobody else had told her but then – Mycroft would certainly not bother with her and Greg hasn’t had time for a chat with her. And who knows? Perhaps he had even told her and she had not believed it… “Just go back to him and warm his bed some more. I thought he liked women with tits and lips but beggars can’t be choosers, right?”

It was a nasty, childish thing to say but he feels no remorse when she sobs and turns to leave. It looks as if she wanted to slam the door shut – but it is one of those doors that always close softly, no matter how hard you try to close it with a big bang. Molly should have known that – this is practically her second home. But perhaps she really never goes anywhere but the autopsy rooms after all… She certainly gets less backchat there.

Another friend lost for good – no more body parts for him to experiment for sure. Tough chance. He doesn’t find it in himself to care… And what did they say about friends that make enemies redundant? He seems to have quite a few of them.

Not Lestrade though. Not Mrs Hudson.

And he has something better than friends after all.

He has a brother.

###

This time he is awake when the door opens up. He has slept quite a bit in the early evening. Now it’s nine pm. Has Mycroft come straight from work? What exactly is his work about at all? What does he actually do all day in the cellar of Whitehall or the silent Diogenes Club? Sherlock remembers all these years ago when he had introduced Mycroft to John, calling his brother ‘the British Government’, the ‘Secret Service’ and even the ‘CIA’ – in a very mocking tone but it had not been completely without pride, had it? Of course he knows that Mycroft has lots of power. He’s meddling in everything important. But he has never asked or thought about how his brother’s days are structured. If he likes coffee when he arrives in the office. How he is dealing with his minions. Is he always cold as ice? Or does he ask this agent how his daughter is coping with her pertussis and that minister if his son is making progress at school? And when had he begun to realise that his brother was actually a real person with a real life, a person with depths, not some spectre to lord his power and reason over him – or get him out of trouble? Perhaps when he had grown up, finally. And it had only taken him to die to do so…

“Hey, Mycroft,” he says, and he hears without surprise how soft his voice sounds. He listens to his brother’s steps coming closer – he can’t see him as neither of them has switched on the light. Meeting in the dark seems to be a thing for them. It makes everything easier.

“Good evening, little brother. How are you?”

There is an undertone that tells Sherlock that Mycroft knows about his visitors – and probably fears that he feels regretful about having dealt with Molly like that. Which he doesn’t. Is this room bugged? Or is Mycroft merely observing who comes and goes?

“Okay,” he says, not bothering about either possibility. In fact, he feels grateful, and this is really a new feeling when it comes to his brother. Grateful for being watched. For big brother’s supervision. It had always made him feel annoyed and pissed off. Now it makes him feel safe. And cared for. Even…

His thoughts stumble over the big word. But then… What did Lestrade say? _‘I do think you could benefit from some love.’_ Is there really any doubt that Mycroft does… love him? No. He has always known that. Never acknowledged it. Nor appreciated it.

When he died – and he still has no idea if that really happened – he did realise that he had treated his brother badly for a long time. He did want to make that better. Because, of course, he loves his brother as well. Mycroft is certainly not the easiest person to deal with, let alone to love. Who should know that better than he? Because they are two of a kind. Unbearable men, too smart and aloof for their own good, lousy at dealing with the common people. Such few people have ever gotten under their shields. And perhaps he and Mycroft had always been on a collision course with each other because they know damn well how to break these shields and hit where it hurts. They both know the other’s sore spots. He had mocked Mycroft with his weight problems and his obsession with controlling everybody, especially him. And Mycroft had jibed at him with not doing a regular job – and of course his drug problems had a constant source of Mycroft's disapproval and he had never been afraid of voicing it.

Can they leave this behind? Can they put what connects them in the centre of their interactions instead of the things that had divided them for decades? Can they… love? And why does this word make him feel so giddy? He knows he loves Mycroft. He has told John that he loves him at the wedding. This feeling is not totally uncommon to him. But suddenly, it feels loaded in a way that makes him wonder if his brain has suffered more than he had thought. The shit heap of drugs he had taken lately. Perhaps they had affected more than his internal organs. Or perhaps this is not even real. Perhaps he is dreaming or hallucinating or…

“Sherlock?”

Damn. Mycroft had been talking and he had missed it. “I’m here.” And then he reaches out with his right hand.

He can sense Mycroft stir – he has seen the gesture in what little light creeps into the room from the corridor. But then he slowly steps closer – and takes Sherlock's hand. His own hand is warm and soft, the hand of a man who has never worked with his hands. Apart from typing on a keyboard or holding a pen. His grip is careful but firm enough to not let Sherlock's fingers slip away.

Something shifts. In Sherlock and between them. Neither of them lets go of the other one.

The realisation doesn’t come as a shock. In fact, it seems as if this had been lurking in a dark corner of his… heart? It is no shock. Not even that much of a surprise.

And he knows he is not dreaming now. The hand holding his is real. An anchor in reality.

They stay like this for a long time. Physically connected in the dark room, where the only sounds are their quiet breathing and the muffled noise of shoes and some distant murmuring from the corridor.

Eventually, Sherlock starts moving his fingers. Circling his thumb around Mycroft's. His brother holds his breath. But then he returns the pressure.

No words are spoken until Mycroft breaks the silence. “I need to go, little brother.” The tenderness in his voice does things to Sherlock's heart that nothing in his life so far had managed to do.

“Will you come back?” He has one more night in this hospital. And then what? Can they take whatever this is out of here? Into the reality of their lives? Or will it fade like a dream just seconds after waking up?

“Of course. Sleep now.” And then Mycroft bends down and kisses him on the cheek. The freshly shaven cheek.

Perhaps he does have premonitions after all – even though he had not seen that coming, not consciously at least. “Goodnight, brother mine,” Sherlock rasps out, hyper aware of his brother’s scent and the warmth of his lips on his skin that he can still feel.

“Goodnight, Sherlock.” And then a hand gently strokes his cheek. Is it the touch of a big brother who cares so much more than he had ever shown? Or is it the promise of a future lover?

In all probability – hopefully – it is both. And when Mycroft has disappeared, Sherlock already can’t wait for him to return.

###

It is nice to be outside. Very nice. Sherlock, sitting on a wooden bench, enjoys the sun on his face. The warmth brings a feeling of calmness and peace.

This morning, he had woken up from a terrible nightmare. He had lived through being murdered again. Smith suffocating him. Closing up his airway while telling him to maintain eye contact.

There is no question that this was a memory, not just a dream. He had not hallucinated it all. It has happened. He has died. And now he’s back and he’s in love with his brother. And if his deduction abilities have not died with him – and the pace at which he had solved Lestrade’s cold cases just by reading the files says he has not – Mycroft is in love with him as well.

And has probably been in love with him for a long time. He had clearly been surprised by Sherlock’s wish to take his hand but he had given it to him after a mere moment of hesitation. So Mycroft had loved him while he had been awful to him. Again and again. And it makes him feel like the biggest arsehole in history. Especially because he should have been feeling like this long ago. Because he had not known that Mycroft loved him in more than the brotherly way but he _had_ known that Mycroft cared for him and it had not kept him from being his nasty self towards him. Mycroft has to be saint to have not dropped him ages ago. And to give him a chance now to make up for all this shit?

He has been given a second chance. He has passed the first test by refusing to be John’s punching bag. And he can only hope he will also succeed in proving his brother that he can believe in him. Trust him. Love him. He can’t fall back into back habits. But they have manifested themselves over literally decades. It can’t be easy to get rid of them. But he must try. And he must do it right. He wonders what will happen if he fails. Will this second chance be taken away? Will he face another deadly threat and lose then? Die for good?

It is amazing though – this is not his biggest fear. He wants this to work because he wants… a life. With Mycroft. The only man who has always been there for him, just as he had said on the plane.

He gets up to walk a few steps in the neat hospital park. He needs to get his strength back. He has a case to solve. The most important case of his life – getting things right with his brother. And it both scares and excites him. So much to try. To look forward to. To be nervous about. But it will be okay. He knows it. Mycroft will be there – and will know what to do. Not because he’s the smart one. But because he is what he is – his big brother. His protector. The man who loves him.

When he walks back into the building, he has a smile on his slightly flushed face.

###

This time, Mycroft comes before it is fully dark. For the first time in – had it been weeks since they had last met before he had ended up in this hospital? – Sherlock sees his face. He knows why Mycroft had chosen to let them look at each other this time. To see if Sherlock is really serious. He is very good at deductions, his big brother, but he might fear that Sherlock is playing a game, now that he had time to think about it, to wonder how this has suddenly happened. And Sherlock couldn’t explain it to him if he asked. Not just because he would hardly believe the story of having died and come back but because he doesn’t know when and why his feelings for Mycroft have changed. But he is sure they are real – this spooky man at the gate, whoever he had been, had not planted them in him. That wouldn’t have made any sense. And he is sure they had been sleeping in him for some time now. He had just been too blind to see them. He cringes when he thinks of this moment when Mycroft had told him that his loss would break his heart. His reaction had been horribly insensitive. And now he knows it hadn’t been the punch talking – the drugs in it might have loosened Mycroft's tongue but the sentiment had clearly been real.

He sees it in Mycroft's gorgeous blue eyes now. And he doesn’t hide his matching feelings. For a long moment, they just stare at each other, and Sherlock lets his brother deduce him. Take him apart with his eyes. He has nothing to hide. And he takes in the sight as well. Mycroft looks stunning. He does have some kind of obsession with being dressed impeccably and he can pull off the expensive-three-piece-suit like nobody else. Even after a day at the office he could model for the GQ magazine. His face is so much handsomer than it had been in his youth. He has aged very well. How has nobody snatched him long ago? Well, yeah. Because he had not wanted any goldfish as he calls them. Perhaps even because he had not wanted anyone but Sherlock. And now they will have each other. Sherlock will be allowed to explore this amazing man. He can’t wait to feel good enough to actually do that. But they can do other things in the meantime he is sure. If Mycroft is really willing to act on it. He is risking a lot, Sherlock is aware of that. Much more than he is. They will have to be so careful. But then – there is hardly anyone to deceive. Mrs Hudson, basically. John is gone. Molly wouldn’t have been a problem anyway and is certainly none now. Sherlock isn’t in the habit of hanging around with Lestrade. And there is nobody on Mycroft's side. The parents will have to be left in the dark, yes, but they hardly ever meet them. And they don't really know their sons anyway.

In any way this relationship will have to bloom in the dark. There will be no strolls in the park together, no holding hands at public places. So what? Sherlock has never craved this. He craves what they _can_ have – intimacy. Closeness. All the things that happen in the secrecy of people’s homes anyway.

He has put on jog pants and a simple black shirt. He gets up now and walks towards Mycroft. They meet in the middle of the room, their eyes never leaving each other. Sherlock puts his hands on his brother’s shoulders.

Mycroft's eyes ask, _‘Are you sure? Absolutely, entirely sure?’_

Sherlock gives him a brief nod and he shudders when Mycroft puts his hands onto his waist. Sherlock knows the routines of the nurses. Nobody will come now. And any visitor will knock before entering, but since Sherlock will go home the next day, nobody will drop by tonight anyway. It is safe.

And so they kiss. It’s a brief meeting of their lips, no passionate snogging. But it touches Sherlock deep in his soul, and when they part, he can see that his brother is his now in a completely new way. And they smile at each other, and then Mycroft pulls him into a firm, promising embrace.


	3. Chapter 3

“Oh, Sherlock! You’re back already! Did you come with a cab, all alone?”

Sherlock smiles at his landlady. “I’m fine, Mrs Hudson. I had enough rest. And my brother sent me a car.”

“Oh, I see.” She has reached him and tries to look over his shoulder.

“He’s not here.” He suppresses a sigh when he sees her relieved expression. “But he will drop by later, Mrs Hudson. We… get along a lot better now so he will come here more often. Be nice to him, hm?” They have agreed on Mycroft coming over to Baker Street after work. Sherlock does suppose that they will rather meet at his brother’s place as soon as he feels well enough to do more than talking and kissing… It is safer. But Mycroft might still visit him sometimes and he wants him to feel welcome.

“Of course,” she assures him and grabs his wrist. “If _you_ like him, _I_ will like him, too.”

Is it really that easy? Well, with her, maybe. She has always regarded him like a son. And if she had been mean to Mycroft before, then because he had been so in the first place. It is not a nice thought. He will have to start this relationship with a long list of apologies. An endless list, probably… “Yes. He really is not that bad.” They have started to walk towards the stairs, Sherlock with his bag in the left hand, Mrs Hudson holding on to the other one.

“Bit arrogant, I think.”

He can hardly argue against that. “Like me, hm?” he smirks.

The old lady smiles. “I think you are a bit nicer.”

“That’s just for show,” he assures her. “In fact, he is a kitten.” Mycroft would probably kill him if he heard that… No. But he would look displeased, Sherlock thinks with a grin.

“I really don’t think so. Not towards us mortals. But to you – yes. I do think he likes you a lot.”

She doesn’t mean it in any suspicious way – or if she does, she manages to hide that from him. “He does. So don’t shoo him out of the house with a broom when he comes, be so kind.”

They chuckle together and then Sherlock goes upstairs. He drops his bag and sits down in his armchair. Inevitably, he glances at John’s, which will forever stay empty now. He will have to throw it out again, this time for good. It does sting. But only a tiny bit. He has lost John long before. By going on a mission to save his life. It is ironic and painful but he had known since John and Mary’s wedding that things would never be the same again. And now that Mary’s death and their nasty confrontation will forever stand between them, even the slightest chance at this has obviously gone.

One story ends, another one begins. And it will be something Sherlock had never expected to experience – a love story. The thought makes him smile in his empty, silent flat.

###

_Back home, lad? GL_

_Yes. Feels as if I had never been away. SH_

_Wasn’t that long! The chief super was over the moon about the cold cases. Thanks again. GL_

_I hope you didn’t tell him that it was me? SH_

_As you wished, I didn’t. Doesn’t feel right tbh. GL_

_You know me. Never did it for fame. If you have more, you know where to find me. SH_

_I do. Don’t know what I’d do without you. Are you okay? Shall I come over with a fruit basket? GL_

_Never mind. My brother will come later and make sure I won’t starve. So does Mrs Hudson. SH_

_I see you’re in the best of hands. I have a case… A new one. GL_

_Why did I see that coming? Not ready, Greg. SH_

_If I just send you the crime scene pics and all we have so far? GL_

_That would be fine. I do need something to do, I guess. But if I can’t make enough of it, the ball will be back in your court. SH_

_Great. I can live with that. And that’s not the only reason why I texted you. Not even the main one. I do care, you know? I know – don’t get sappy, Gus. GL_

_Don’t take the words out of my mouth, Gino. Give me what you have. SH_

_That sounds weird. GL_

_I have no use for what you mean, Mr Bad Jokes. Besides – no boobs here. SH_

_Not offended. But… Ah, forget it. I’ll send you the stuff now. GL_

_Ask ahead. SH_

_You are not out for boobs, are you? GL_

_No. If that even mattered at all, I’d prefer balls. And if you try to set me up with someone, the next murder for me to solve will be yours. SH_

_Understood. Here comes the file. I owe you. GL_

_More than you can ever pay back. SH_

_Don’t I know it. If you have something for me etc., etc. GL_

_Go back to work. SH_

_Aye, sir. GL_

###

It’s the hour of truth, Sherlock thinks when he hears Mycroft walking up the stairs. Meeting at his place, in bright daylight. Will it stand the test of reality? Or will Mycroft back out, afraid of what he could lose? And he might fear more than putting his job and power on the line. If it goes wrong, how will they cope as brothers afterwards?

But when Mycroft appears in the door, Sherlock can see that his brother had thought about all this – and come to the conclusion that it is worth the risk.

They share a long look after saying ‘hello’ and then Sherlock gestures inside the flat, and Mycroft nods and enters. He leans his umbrella against the wall and slips out of his coat. Sherlock takes it and hangs it up. He glances at Mycroft's appearance. Delectable… A light-blue suit he has never seen before. How many does his brother have? It looks expensive and is clinging to his tall, slim body most fetchingly. This man even smells expensive. He oozes power and charisma like nobody else Sherlock has ever met. Gorgeous, handsome big brother...

His heart is beating way too fast now. He doesn’t fear anymore that Mycroft could have developed second thoughts and is only here in a brotherly capacity. And he only briefly wondered if the gatekeeper had not been exactly talking about incest when he told him to do better in dealing with Mycroft, and could be totally shocked and will strike them with lightning. He is weirdly sure that this is not the case. In fact, if this man had even existed – and he is almost a hundred percent sure he had – he had known that it would lead to this.

But can he live up to his brother’s expectations? Not that they can be that high, given the fact that Mycroft knows he is a virgin. And that he is _Sherlock_ , a man full of flaws… Mycroft can’t expect this to be anything else than a bumpy ride, and still he is here, still he is smiling at Sherlock and nods approvingly when he sees tea and scones on the living room table. And still he pulls Sherlock in for a kiss.

He goes all limp and pliant in his brother’s arms when all his concerns melt away as the kiss develops into full snogging, and it’s Mycroft who is leading the way but he is following eagerly, learning fast how to do it, and it is working so well and it’s not awkward or icky but simply wonderful. And for the first time he fantasises how his elegant, posh brother will look naked and worked up and aroused, and it makes his cheek flush thoroughly.

They end up on his couch, and Sherlock refuses to let his brother go even for a second. He pulls him all over his body and Mycroft goes along, and his lips are hot and firm and they move away from Sherlock's now puffy mouth to nibble at his ear and work their way down to his collarbone – his deft fingers have opened the first two buttons of Sherlock's purple shirt.

Sherlock makes a noise of discontentment when he stops and cups his face with both hands. “No stopping,” he complains.

Mycroft smiles. “It’s more than I had planned to do already, little brother.”

“This doesn’t have to be _planned_. It’s not a work project.”

“Oh, but it is.” Mycroft’s smile gets wider. “It’s too soon. I can’t just ravish you on your couch, with your landlady downstairs.”

“She doesn’t hear very well anymore,” tries Sherlock.

“But she could decide to come upstairs anytime. And… can we do this slowly? Even the fact that you were discharged from the hospital only this morning aside?”

“I’m feeling very well. And I won’t change my mind in case you are thinking that.” Damn… Why does he sound like a petulant boy?

Mycroft doesn’t seem to mind. “That is very good to hear. But… there are some things we need to agree on first.”

“Yes, yes. Nobody may know. There are only Mrs Hudson and Lestrade left anyway. We can use condoms if you insist on it.”

Mycroft grins. “I’ve seen your latest blood tests. And you can see mine, too. Not necessary.”

“Great!”

Mycroft stares at him in wonder. “You are so eager. Care to tell me where this came from all of a sudden?”

He would not believe it in a million years. Besides, Sherlock doesn’t really know where this unbrotherly feelings had indeed come from. Or when they had developed. “I can’t elaborate. It just happened. Does that matter? I’m very, very sure.”

Mycroft gives him a doubtful look but he lets it slide. “Fine. What do you think – shall we have tea and talk a bit more, and meet up just to talk and yes, kiss, for the next few days, and when you have fully recovered, we can go a bit further?”

“At this pace, we will get to fuck on Christmas!” And it’s only bloody _August_...

Mycroft actually laughs out loud at that. “This is really amazing. You, keen on being all nice with me?”

“I am,” confirms Sherlock. “Nice, sexy big brother.” His fingers go astray at Mycroft's sadly clothed chest. He can still feel his brother’s nipples through the thin fabric – until his hand is gently shoved away.

“Oh Sherlock. You have no idea what this all means to me. But it will be even sweeter if we take it slow, okay?”

 _Patience is boring,_ Sherlock thinks, but he doesn’t say it – which is futile anyway as Mycroft can read him like a book if his amused look is anything to go by. “Fine. Over tea, you can listen to me saying sorry then.” If they have to start somewhere, it is there.

“What for?” Mycroft looks genuinely surprised.

Sherlock sighs. “Rather ask for what I am _not_ sorry…”

Mycroft reaches out again and strokes his hair. “Lock. I don’t need your apologies. If I can have your affection instead?”

Sherlock nods firmly, knowing he has gotten away too easily but feeling grateful for it. “I’m going to shower you with it. As soon as you let me…”

“Soon, little brother.” He grabs the teapot. “I’ll be mother.”

“God no,” Sherlock giggles, and they share a heartfelt laughter that makes the rest of Sherlock's worries vanish for good.

###

“Oh, you look great!”

Shit… Sherlock had hoped that he would be able to sneak out of 221B unseen. But Mrs Hudson is an even bigger mother hen than Mycroft and has watched over him like a hawk the past week. But he had heard her coming back from doing grocery shopping and estimated that he would have at least ten minutes to leave before she was finished storing the stuff.

He smiles at her nonetheless. “Thank you. It’s just a suit.”

“A new one,” she says, and there is a strange glimmer in her eyes.

It is new indeed. Mycroft had given it to him. Mycroft had in fact showered him with useful presents. And tonight he would hopefully give him the most precious one of all – apart from his emotional love of course – his body… Sherlock had loved talking to him and holding hands and snogging until they were both breathless and rock hard in their pants. He had even allowed Sherlock's hand to examine the bulge beneath his trousers – the huge bulge to be precise – but he had batted his hand away way too soon.

But now big brother had finally given in and promised to introduce Sherlock to some of the many pleasures of the flesh. He spent an hour in the bathroom and his skin looked decidedly red when he left it, squeaky clean, thoroughly shaven, his teeth blinking with cleanness. And of course he has made an effort with his hair and clothing, too. Mycroft deserves the best version of Sherlock that is available.

In the end, he had sneaked his apologies into their conversations about basically everything, and Mycroft had, of course, accepted them. They had mused about childhood memories and talked about more or less everything. It had blown Sherlock away to realise how witty his brother really is, how thoughtful and how emotional after all. Sentences like ‘caring is not an advantage’ are not going to be uttered between the two of them anymore and there are definitely no hearts in danger of being broken.

Sherlock is so heavily in love now that he’s had trouble sleeping. He has taken to calling Mycroft every evening after coming home – they have met at his place most of the time – and talking to him some more, his brother’s soft voice calming him down even though he is actually the source of Sherlock's sleeplessness. He has also begun to nap during the day and today he has gotten two hours of sleep so he is highly awake and ready now. He just hopes he won’t make a total fool out of himself when it comes to the physical intimacy. But he knows that even if he does, big brother will be indulgent and supportive as he has always been.

“Are you having dinner in a restaurant?” asks Mrs Hudson, and before he can think about it, he answers truthfully, “No, at my brother’s place.”

She knows that he is getting along a lot better with Mycroft and that they have been spending some time with each other but they both know he wouldn’t have had to dress up that much for a simple dinner with his older sibling.

He is not sure if he is really surprised though when he sees a slight smile pulling at her lips. She is clearly not surprised… “Have fun then,” she says softly, and Sherlock bends down and spontaneously brushes a kiss onto her cheek.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” he says quietly, and they both know he means a lot more than her friendly wish.

She pats his arm. “Anytime, my dear. If you’re happy, I’m happy too.”

Again – it is that easy with her. He knows he will never speak it out and she will never ask, and it’s just fine. She has always been on his side – even when she had forced him into the trunk of her car at gunpoint…

He bids her goodbye and leaves. When he opens the front door, an envelope in a plastic sleeve falls onto the ground – it had been sticking between door and doorframe. He is not surprised to see his name written on it – but he swallows when he recognises the handwriting.

He is torn about what to do – leave it where it is. Take it with him, unopened. Tear it apart. Or read it. He chooses the last possibility.

###

_Hello Sherlock._

_Mrs Hudson told me that you are doing well. I asked her not to tell you that we’ve been in contact._

_On the day we met, you said I was an idiot._

_You were right._

_I’m sorry. Very, very sorry. I have no idea if you are even going to read this, and I won’t bother you with writing an endless letter._

_Just that – I’m sorry._

_I’m sorry for welcoming you with violence when you came back after faking your death. I know you didn’t do it to hurt me. I just… missed you so much. But you deserved an embrace, not a head butt. I know you only did it to protect us. And I never said sorry for reacting like that before._

_I’m sorry for blaming you for Mary’s death. All you said to me was true. It was her choice. And yes – she did kill you. And I’m glad that you were not killed this time. I ignored you and pushed you away for months. That was wrong._

_And I’m so bloody sorry for hitting you. There is no excuse for that, really. I watched the DVD. You did it all for me. The drugs, confronting Smith. Just how far would you have been prepared to go? Just to receive such a reaction. If Mary could have, she would have hit_ _ me _ _… I was just crazy at this moment. Perhaps your brother told you about this other woman… But again… No excuse..._

_If you never want to talk to me again, that’s okay. I understand it. You did so much for me, and for Mary, and I thanked you by being a total dick. But you have my number. And if you find it in yourself to try to forgive me, text me or call me. I swear to you – I will never behave like this again. And if I ever do, you have the explicit permission to kick my arse._

_Going to a therapist now. Another new one; my last one just disappeared and she was rather weird anyway. Trying out a male one now. He seems to be quite good. But it wasn’t him who made me write this letter. It was looking into the mirror and seeing that bump on my chin – nice blow by the way – and I realised what I had become. God knows what I would have done to you if you had not hit back. I feel like a complete arsehole. Which I am, I know._

_I’m sure you don’t care but just so you know – I ended things with Molly. So she hates us both now. But this affair wasn’t good for either of us. She slapped me in the face when I told her…_

_Maybe I’m a coward to not go upstairs and talk to you. Or call you. But I would like you to think about it before you erase me from your life for good. I guess we will never be the friends again we have been before all that. But maybe we can find some truce and make a new start. I would love to solve a case with you again. Greg told me that you don’t want to actually work on crime scenes anymore. That’s understandable, too. But if you need me for anything else, I would be happy to help out. We can just meet for a chat. A beer. Whatever. Just be prepared to listen to my apologies in person then again._

_Damn. I did write an endless letter in the end! And even now I could go on and on. We both know I hardly scratched the surface._

_Anyway. I’m sorry I fucked this up. You deserved nothing of this shit._

_Always your friend (and I swear I will be a good one again),_

_John Watson._

_###_

Sherlock stares at the piece of (expensive) paper for a long time before he carefully puts the letter back into the envelope and stores it in his coat pocket.

He had not expected this. He had not known that John was even able to be that self-critical. And he is decidedly torn about how to react to it.

When he enters the cab to go to Mycroft's place, he thinks that he knows who that female therapist who disappeared must have been. Even Mycroft has missed that. So had he. At this point, he had paid no heed to her, had not realised he had met her before – the sister who can manipulate everybody, fooling him twice. And he wonders if John would have attacked him if he hadn’t spoken to her before – in even two incarnations as well. And if he had come to save his life in that first version of the ghastly events otherwise. It is futile to speculate about this, and John has always had some anger issues after all… And he _had_ behaved like an arsehole before...

He thinks about it until the cab is almost at his destination. Weighs the pros and cons. Recalls the hatred on John’s face when he had hit him. Thinks about how he had been feeling when John had erased him from his life without even bothering to hear an apology. How John had let him down in the original line of events, had let him die. And he thinks of all the fun they’d had before The Fall. How John had killed to save him on the very first night. Wonders what the mysterious man at the gate would say to him considering forgiving the man who had wronged him.

In the end, what tips the scales is the fact that _he_ has been given a second chance.

He pulls out his phone and texts John.

_Wednesday, 12.00, Angelo’s? You mess it up again, it’s done for good. SH_

_And never try to change me again. I am who I am. Take it or let it be. SH_

_Fuck, thank you. I’ll be there. And I won’t. Neither. Prepare to hear all the apologies. JW_

Sherlock nods to himself. Then he stores his phone again and focuses on the matter at hand – getting all nice with big bro.

###

Said big bro looks at him thoroughly after greeting him with a firm and very nice kiss and a tight embrace. He raises one eyebrow. “So. The good doctor is back in your life?”

“On parole. We will see. But he did apologise.”

“He should be grovelling at your feet.”

Sherlock grins. “Maybe I’ll let him. Do you think… Eurus could have influenced him to act like this? Because she wasn’t only his crush from the bus. She was his therapist, too.” Even if he had not looked at her very much, he should have seen it. She was the same woman as the one who had pretended to be Faith… The drugs had made him slip greatly.

“Damn… I totally missed that.” Mycroft looks shocked. “I wouldn’t rule that out at all. I did wonder why she targeted him.”

Sherlock nods. “Maybe she did, maybe he’s just been an arsehole. And it’s not just forgiven and forgotten. He will have to make up for it thoroughly, and if he ever gets like this again, he can expect an adequate reply and can piss off for good. But I’m not here to talk about John Watson. I’m not here to talk at all, actually.”

“No?” This darn eyebrow again. “You don’t want to hear how my day was? Don’t want to hear how great you are looking? No compliments for my hair? No friendly chatter?”

“We can do that afterwards.” Sherlock starts dragging his brother further inside the house.

“After what?” the damned man plays innocent.

“After the _sex_ , Mycroft, do keep up!”

That gets some heartfelt laughter but Mycroft indulges him – when does he ever not? – and lets himself be pulled forward. “So eager,” he teases. “I might have a headache though. We should postpone it for a few days.”

“Nice try, Mycroft.” They have reached the stairs and Sherlock leads the way, his brother’s hand intertwined with his.

“I feel so used.”

“I haven’t even _started_ to use you.” Since when is his brother so bloody funny? It’s hard not to have a laughing fit.

“Woe is me!”

“Stop complaining. I’m planning to be very nice to you.”

“Okay, in _that_ case…” Mycroft stops at the top of the stairs to pull him in for a kiss.

“You are _wasted_ as the British Government, Mycroft,” Sherlock says when he can speak again. “The comedy business is missing out on you greatly.”

Mycroft smiles and pinches his behind. “Only for you, little brother. That’s a big step but I suppose you’re ready to take it now?”

“I was ready days ago!”

Mycroft pecks his nose. “Fine. Lets go and get down and dirty.”

“That’s the best sentence I’ve ever heard from you.”

Mycroft smiles but looks at him inquiringly when they enter his bedroom. “There is something you are not telling me. Something that made you change like this.”

Sherlock nods. “Yes. There is. But you wouldn’t believe it.”

“Try me.”

“Not now. No talking out of it!”

“Oh Sherlock. That’s the very last thing I want. I want you naked and willing.”

“That, dear brother, will happen… right now.” And with this, he starts to undress, and his heart stops for a moment when Mycroft follows his example, revealing, finally, a gloriously hairy chest and those long, surprisingly hairless legs. And the bulge looks even more impressive when only covered by boxer briefs. His brother is hung massively, and he licks his lips at the thought of worshipping what he has. “They are going, too,” he demands, pointing at the last bit of clothing Mycroft has not removed.

Mycroft grins and walks over to the bed. “I’ll leave it to you to take them off. But maybe you would like to touch me through them first?”

Oh yes… Sherlock thinks he will like that very much. Now that he knows there is no backing out by big brother, they can take their time. But… “Is your phone off? I don’t want the Queen or the PM to call you and make you hasten back to the office!”

Mycroft smiles. “It is off. But even if it wasn’t, I wouldn’t answer a call now. Not even from the Queen.”

Sherlock joins him on the bed, stark naked, and he feels his cheeks flush a bit when he feels Mycroft's eager looks on his body. There are scars – a lot of them – and he has only just recovered from being seriously ill, but all in all, the sight is probably not too ghastly. They meet for a heated kiss, and Sherlock slings his leg around Mycroft's arse and rubs himself against his clothed erection while he is plundering his mouth, and it’s just awesome and he is aroused beyond words – although they have not even really begun.

###

If Mycroft planned to seduce him slowly and show him gently how to please another man, he must be sadly disappointed now, Sherlock thinks with a smirk. He has not let his brother move a finger. In fact, he has pushed him onto his back, pinned his arms above his head, and proceeded to take him apart. It’s a world of emotions, scents, noises and trial and error, of sucking at swollen nipples, licking at wiry body hair, dipping his tongue into a navel – and licking a still clothed penis until Mycroft begs him to get it out and suck it properly.

Sherlock did do some thorough research on the internet. He read about how to overcome his gag reflex. The reality is a completely different story but as determined and excited as he is, he is doing a pretty good job for the first try. At least Mycroft's reactions allow this conclusion. It is a weird feeling to have something lively and twitching and secreting in his mouth, to lick up bitter fluid and cover his teeth with his lips to not scratch the tender flesh up. As he is who he is, he stores every bit of data away in his mind palace even though he hopes to repeat this experience over and over again. And he is enjoying it. He likes his brother’s taste, he likes how heavy his cock feels in his hand, how soft and hairy his sack is. And he listens closely to whatever utterance of pleasure escapes Mycroft's lips. His brother is in his hands, literally, even in his mouth, and it is a feeling of triumph and power as much as it is one of devotion and pride to be able to give him pleasure.

“Get me out, I’m close,” Mycroft stammers after about ten minutes, but Sherlock instead increases his suction, ready and willing to go with him to the end.

He regrets that when his mouth and throat are flooded with bitter fluid, and most of it runs over his chin and onto his brother’s groin, but he manages to swallow some of it and keep it in his stomach. His eyes are watery and he coughs. There is a hair or two in his throat and it makes him gag.

“Here.” Mycroft is handing him a glass of water and Sherlock drinks it eagerly and gratefully. “I warned you,” Mycroft chides him, urging him to come closer so he can wrap his arm around Sherlock's waist.

“You did. It was an interesting experience.”

Mycroft laughs. “How diplomatically put.”

“It was okay. I will do it again, and next time, I’ll be better prepared.”

“It’s not something you can easily prepare for though,” smirks Mycroft. “It’s a physical reaction that not even Sherlock Holmes can control.”

“We will see about that. Now… What are you going to do about this?” Sherlock gestures at his cock, which is still fully erect.

“Hm. I think I will leave it to you to take care of it while I’m taking a shower,” deadpans Mycroft.

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“No, of course not. Lie down, little brother, and let me practice my long forgotten blowjob skills.” Mycroft grabs two more pillows and sets them up against the backrest of the bed.

Sherlock doesn’t like to think about the fact that his brother had been with other men before but nobody can change the past. Well…

“What’s so funny?” Mycroft asks, smiling.

“Nothing, brother dear. I’m laid out for you so if you could please get to work?” Sherlock is presenting himself as the main prize – including spread legs and pushing his hips forward.

“Always so demanding. Now, what do we have here?”

“If you don’t know that, this will get rather awk-… Oh…”

In the end, big brother knows it very well.

###

“Mmm. Who’s this?”

“Smartarse.”

“Ah, good morning, little brother. What are you doing?”

“It was hard already. Thought I can make it a bit harder so you can fuck me with it.” Sherlock grins when Mycroft's eyes finally spring open at that.

“Already? Never thought you were a slut.”

Sherlock laughs out loud, his hand still wrapped around Mycroft's impressive member. “Such a word from you? Oh, this is going to get even more interesting with every day, isn’t it?”

“I do hope so. But first I need to brush my teeth and take another shower. And shave.”

“Which means I’ll have to do all of this, too, before I’ll get to the goodies?” Sherlock sighs. “If I must…”

“You do.” Mycroft reaches out to put a hand onto his cheek, and Sherlock melts into the touch.

When Mycroft had given him his first-ever blowjob – which had lasted about a minute – they had taken a shower and made out under the hot spray some more. Then Mycroft brought some sandwiches he had wisely prepared beforehand, and they went to bed after eating, fumbling a bit under the blanket before falling asleep in a pile.

Now he gets up and offers Mycroft a hand. “Come, handsome man. Let’s get ready so you can show me how it feels to have that large thing up my arse.”

“Your language is appalling.”

“I know. Isn’t it marvellous?”

Mycroft smiles and agrees, and they make their way to the bathroom hand in hand.

###

The intrusion feels overwhelming at first but Sherlock adjusts to his brother’s careful strokes rather quickly. Of course he has been prepared thoroughly but Mycroft is large and Sherlock is not used to having anything going into his arse.

Still it feels… magical. Sherlock would have despised such a description had it come from a goldfish, but it truly is. Mycroft is taking him missionary style and they keep maintaining eye contact throughout their encounter. The sting and burn is replaced by more and more arousal while Mycroft increases the pace, his eyes constantly checking him for an expression of strong discomfort. Sherlock is holding on to his shoulders or his neck and Mycroft bends down to kiss him every minute or so. The feeling of intimacy and almost-merging is reaching depths of Sherlock's soul he had not thought he even possessed. This is love, this is forever, and Sherlock feels more grounded and peaceful, despite his excitement, than he has ever felt before.

They pant themselves through their encounter almost wordlessly. Some moments are too big for talking. And between the two of them, no unnecessary words are required.

Sherlock reaches his climax when Mycroft shifts his weight onto one knee to masturbate him with firm, almost brutal strokes, and Sherlock comes apart with a cry while he can feel his brother erupt inside him.

Mycroft pulls out only when he softens, kissing him tenderly in the few precious moments before they inevitably have to part. He cleans them both up with a flannel and lies down next to Sherlock, pulling him into a tight embrace.

Listening to his brother’s heartbeat under the cool skin of his chest, Sherlock feels relaxed and grateful. Such a nice pillow his brother is. Cuddling up on an exquisite bed. Post-coital bliss. Life is awesome.

And then the question comes. “Will you tell me now?”

Sherlock swallows. “It’s not a nice story.”

“So it’s even more important that I hear it.”

Sherlock nods and, facing away from Mycroft, his head still resting on his furry chest, he tells him what happened – the first time he confronted Culverton Smith, explaining why he had taken the drugs and what his plans had been.

Mycroft listens without saying a word but Sherlock can feel his tension and terror. “So… Will you now call the people with the straight jacket?” he asks dryly, finally meeting Mycroft's gaze.

His brother, his face pale, his lips pressed together, looks shocked to the core. But not because he thinks Sherlock has gone crazy. They both know that Sherlock is a man of science who doesn’t believe in anything supernatural. During the case of the hound, Sherlock had doubted his own senses. But he doesn’t do it now. He knows it has happened.

“My god,” Mycroft finally brings out. “You died. I had lost you, and I didn’t even know it.”

Sherlock is amazed that Mycroft accepts it as the truth that it is. “But I came back. And I did everything better.”

“And you forgave John? He left you to the mercy of a serial killer after kicking away at you! He let you die!”

Sherlock nods. “That’s true. But me hitting back made him think about it. And regret it. Perhaps… I had lost his respect as I just endured everything he and Mary gave me. Perhaps… he thought I didn’t want to go on myself.” And wasn’t there a true core to this? He doesn’t mention that but he knows that Mycroft can sense it, and it has to be devastating for him. And it’s not an excuse for John’s behaviour anyway. He doesn’t even try to justify it any more and settles for, “He doesn’t know what happened in that first round of events. And, Mycroft… Without all this, I would have in all probability never realised my feelings for you.”

It’s a fact. Nobody had planted these feelings in him. They had been there before. But this emotional shock has set them free. And perhaps – this nasty experience had been meant to bring him together with the man he has learned to love like mad.

Mycroft stays silent for a long moment. “I see that. But Sherlock… If he ever hurts you again…”

“I won’t let him.”

“I will kill him.” Mycroft’s voice is cold as ice now and Sherlock doesn’t doubt for a second that he means it.

“Fine. You have my permission. But call it another premonition – he won’t. We will never live together again. We might meet for cases from time to time or eat together and that’s it.” He will return to working on real cases. He can feel it. But he will pick them with reason and foresight. He is not going to risk his life again. Now he has too much to lose for that.

When he tells Mycroft as much, his brother smiles and strokes his hair. “I love you, little brother. Never leave me again.”

“I won’t. Cause I love you too. And Mycroft…”

“Yes, dear?”

“You remember what you said about the hammer and the nail?”

“Sure.”

“It just felt very good to be the nail for you. Even though, strictly spoken, I was the wall and your cock was the nail. A big one…”

Mycroft laughs out loud and pulls him in for a kiss. “My crazy wall. Would you like to feel my nail sometime soon again?”

“In half an hour would be good, my sexy hammer.” After this serious conversation, he feels strangely giddy. And determined to bring a lighter note to the aftermath of their first real love-making.

“Oh dear.”

“Nobody’s gonna save you from me,” Sherlock promises.

“I wouldn’t want it any other way,” Mycroft assures him, and then they kiss some more, and Sherlock knows he will always hold onto this and thank a higher power he had never believed in before for his second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had not planned to let John show up again in this story. But it felt incomplete without Sherlock coming to terms with him. Show-Sherlock forgave him, no, did not even resent him for his brutality in the first place. This Sherlock has stood up for himself and this John is truly sorry and has said so. So I don't think that Sherlock would not give him another chance. It's just not him.


	4. Epilogue

Sherlock has left the cab about fifty metres away from Angelo’s. He can see John, dressed in black jeans and a light blue jacket, pacing in front of the restaurant. His former friend’s body language and the grim look on his face tell Sherlock that John is beyond nervous. He keeps ruffling his hair and his look is directed at the pavement. The picture of a beaten man.

Is this a good idea? Sherlock doesn’t know it. He does know that Mycroft does not appreciate him being here but his brother is well aware how much John has meant to him. And on some level still does. But they can’t pick it up where they have left it, and John’s behaviour shows him that the doctor knows that very well.

He straightens his back and walks towards him. And when John raises his gaze and sees him, he can see him swallow. _‘Into battle’_ is what they both think.

John clearly doesn’t know how to greet him. He makes a half-hearted attempt at offering him his hand but then he stores it in his pocket. “Hello, Sherlock.”

“John.”

The doctor’s chin is still bearing hints of the bruise Sherlock has given it. It shimmers in green and violet. A lasting souvenir.

John sees his look and grins wryly. “I lied a bit, you know. Molly didn’t just slap me. She used her fist in fact, and aimed at the exact same spot again.”

“Oh. Nice.” Sherlock can’t suppress a grin and then holds his breath as he fears that it could make John angry. Which pretty much says everything about what their relationship has become.

John doesn’t miss his reaction and his shoulders slump. He swallows hard. “Sherlock…”

“Come. Let’s go inside first,” Sherlock decides.

He leads the way and greets Angelo, and the three of them have a superficial chat. Angelo asks about Rosie – and Sherlock realises that he has not wasted a thought on his godchild since he had re-started his life and gotten together with Mycroft. The baby deserves better. It’s not her fault that her parents have done awful things to him. And as Molly has obviously disappeared from her life, too, only Mrs Hudson is left. But then – Sherlock has not asked for being her godfather. He is not good with humans, and he has never particularly warmed up to any children. He is honest enough to admit that to himself. And he is pretty sure that John has figured that out by now, too.

They sit down and order, and then silence falls upon them – John has told him to expect apologies but now that he could utter them, he seems to have frozen in uncomfortablenss. They both look at their hands and the table cloth _[red, with stains in all colours]_ rather than each other. Thank God, Angelo has spared them the candles, Sherlock thinks sarcastically.

It’s John who breaks the uncomfortable silence. He clears his throat – a constant habit that Sherlock has never found exactly becoming. “I’m so glad you came. I wasn’t sure you would.”

“I wasn’t, either,” Sherlock admits. He has spent some lovely evenings and nights with his brother. They had a lot of sex. And it was always breathtaking. They have been getting to know each other better and better, and he loves Mycroft more every time they meet.

Sitting here with John feels… weird. As if the doctor belonged to a life that he has left behind. And it is like this, in a way. Perhaps they should just end it right here and there.

John senses his thoughts, and to Sherlock's surprise, his big blue eyes instantly fill up with tears. “Sherlock, please. Don’t kick me out of your life.”

Sherlock winces at the expression, and he has to remind himself that this version of John has not done this. He has not kicked and injured him. Has not left him to die even though he had known that Mary had planned this and Sherlock had just been following along. To save John.

“You did that, John,” he still says as it is true in a very different way. He keeps his voice low but he can hear how strident his tone is. Being confronted with his former best friend is something entirely different than just thinking about him after reading his written apology. The feeling is raw and it hurts more than he has expected. “You kicked me out of your life after Mary died. You refused to talk to me. You let Molly bring the nasty message. Thanks for this piece of paper by the way. It was a nice read…” He is not referring to John’s apology letter but to the one Molly had given him, and his tone is dripping with irony.

John bites his thin bottom lip. “I know. I’m so sorry. For so much. I was horrible to you.”

“Yes, you were, and who says you won’t be again? I refuse to be the scapegoat for your own failures. You made out with another woman after Rosie was born? How _could_ you? I thought Mary meant so much to you?”

John nods, his hands are cramping around the edge of the table. “You don’t understand that, Sherlock, this is too far out of your… reality of life. You don’t know how it is when your partner is not… available anymore. Not just physically. It was all about Rosie. And you don’t have to tell me that this is totally normal. I know that. And I love my daughter, course I do. But I still felt… strange. I was… I think I was, most of all, missing our adventures, Sherlock. I have done nothing but missing them ever since I watched you jumping off that roof.”

“So everything is still my fault,” Sherlock says, his tone bitter.

“No. I know it’s not. It’s mine. Just mine.” John shakes his head. “Everything fell to pieces when you were gone. Those two years… I was… dead. More dead than you.”

“Yes. Fighting against Moriarty’s people to keep you safe really made me feel alive. And this whipping in Serbia was particularly refreshing…”

“You never told me about your time away.”

“You never asked.”

They are silent again for a moment. There is a large rift of mutual resentments and bitterness between them – much deeper than it had ever been between him and Mycroft – and Sherlock has no idea how to cross it, let alone close it.

“I resented you for forgiving Mary for shooting at me,” he surprises them both. He has never even realised that before.

John is taken aback. “But… _You_ told me-…”

“I know. I did forgive her. Because she was so important to you. It was all about you, John, everything I did for years was for you. And you thanked me with welcoming me with violence – and yes, I do admit my stunt in that restaurant wasn’t a very sensitive thing to do – ignoring me afterwards and being a total stranger just because of that woman. I never thought this would happen to us. That a woman in your life could make our friendship so unimportant to you.” Of course he had known that this happened to people. But he had thought that he and John were above this. After all they had gone through together.

John gives him a desperate look. “But it wasn’t! I wanted nothing more than to go back to Baker Street. But… She had been there when I needed someone. I felt I couldn’t just drop her. And then I did drop her after she almost killed you.”

“She did kill me. I flat-lined. And I came back to save you from the danger that was her. I told you.” Sherlock shakes his head. “The detective in me made me want to solve her case. I… never liked her.” There, he said it…

“I know. I always knew that.” John looks completely beaten now. “She wasn’t very… nice. And she never said sorry for the shot. Until… her last moment. And suddenly I was alone, alone with a baby, because she preferred dying for you over living with me. And a part of me was happy to be free.” His eyes widen when he realises what he has just said.

Wow… These are really moments of truth… “So you lashed out at me because…”

“...I felt guilty for so many reasons. I conjured up her ghost, Sherlock, for weeks. I spoke to her. I was mad. Totally gaga. And when I saw you like this, so drugged out and finished, I snapped. She had died for you, I thought, and you just seemed to have thrown it away. I had no idea that you had planned this and that Mary made you do it.”

“And then you found out about it and let me die,” slips out of Sherlock's mouth before he can control it.

And of course John’s face is a mask of confusion. “What?”

Sherlock huffs out a bitter laugh. “I could explain it but you would never believe me.”

John shakes his head. “Sherlock – if I learned something from living with you then it is that nothing is impossible if you are concerned. Just tell me. Please. I can hardly feel any worse about what I’ve become…”

“I beg to differ,” Sherlock says dryly, but then he takes a deep breath and tells John what had happened – before his life had been rewound.

###

“When I was finished, he cried like a baby. We had gotten our food by then and he literally cried into his lasagne,” he tells Mycroft, sitting on his brother’s desk.

Anthea or whatever her real name is will make sure that they will remain undisturbed. Sherlock doesn’t like to bother Mycroft at work but he has felt the strong urge to see him after this remarkable lunch, and Mycroft has been genuinely happy to see him so it is probably okay.

It is amazing really that both men he had told about his supernatural experience have believed it instantly. Perhaps because they know that a man of science like him would never make up something that unscientific. It betrays everything he has ever believed in after all.

John had cried buckets and buckets as Jim Moriarty would have said. Well, his mind-palace-Jim at least. Tears of remorse and self-hatred, and Sherlock had not been really unhappy about it. It had surprised him that he had not felt the urge to fall in though. His eyes had remained dry. John just doesn’t get under his skin again like this anymore – like it had happened during this phone call from the rooftop of Barts. Too much has happened since then. There had been some serious co-dependency between him and the doctor ever since they had met. As far as Sherlock is concerned, this is gone. He doesn’t live for pleasing John Watson anymore.

“So you forgave him, more or less,” states Mycroft but he doesn’t sound offended. He has clearly not expected anything else.

“I’m not sure I will ever be able to. I told him that I would never accept any shit from him again,” Sherlock replies. “And I won’t. He is in therapy and perhaps this man will finally help him overcome his anger issues. We don’t have a secret brother, too, don’t we? Someone even more murderous than Eurus?” He had told John who the woman in the bus had really been, as well as his previous therapist, and John had looked as if he was close to biting into the tabletop. They would never know for sure if Eurus had perhaps influenced him, strengthened his aggression perhaps – but Sherlock doubts it. There had already been enough resentment in John to make that happen… And that story about seeing Mary’s ghost… No. John had not been at his best at this time. And that is still no excuse but at least John does know that.

Mycroft laughs. “Not that I know of. He would have to be much older than me.”

“Practically a dodderer then,” Sherlock teases him. “No danger from there then.”

“Brat.”

Sherlock grins. “I know.” Then he turns serious again. “I don’t expect him to never get furious at me again; this anger – it is part of his personality. But he knows that if he’s really in danger of losing it again, he has to just leave the situation until he has calmed down or count to ten or whatever helps and talk to me about it. I will never accept feeling his fists or feet or whatever again. And I told him that you and I get along better. Of course not how much better,” he hurries to add. “He seemed to be surprisingly happy about it.”

“That really surprises me,” Mycroft says dryly. “I never thought he was my biggest fan… So… Will he move back in with you then?”

“God no. There is not enough space for three people anyway. And I made pretty clear that I won’t share my flat with a toddler.” John had reacted rather well to that after asking Sherlock carefully how he felt about him returning to Baker Street eventually, when they had sorted it all out. Apparently he had asked his sister to look after Rosie quite a few times over the past months and she had taken a strong liking to the child and vice versa. No reason to feel bad about neglecting his godfatherly duties then. He had been a fool to ever accept them in the first place.

Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted to share his flat with John again, even with more space. This phase is over for good. “We will meet again when I have an interesting case. Interesting but not dangerous,” he adds.

Mycroft smiles and there is a shade of sadness in it. “How long will you be able to resist the siren call of real adventure, little brother?”

Sherlock slides from his desk and onto his lover’s lap, slinging his arms around his neck. “I know what I have to lose now. Not going to risk our future.” He kisses Mycroft, and Mycroft's lips return the kiss gently. “I love you, brother mine. You are my number one now, and that’s not going to change.” It’s Mycroft now – that he shares the co-dependency with. And somehow he feels just good about it. He does still want to please someone but it is someone who will never lash out on him, ever. His brother had enough reasons to do so in the past and he never had.

“I’m very glad to hear that. Did you tell John that I will kill him if he ever raises a hand at you again?”

Sherlock smiles. “No. Because I will do that myself.” He bends down to steal another deep kiss.

Well, perhaps he wouldn’t go that far but he has a good feeling about John and him now. They have talked a lot more after John’s crying session. They have laid their cards on the table. John knows he has to make up for his failures with deeds and not just words. He also knows that he’s in everybody’s bad books, and he has promised to work on that. And to thoroughly work on himself. They still have to come to terms with a nasty past and see if there is a true chance of making a new start as real friends or if they will become the sort of _‘sending a text to each other once in a while’_ people – if at all.

Sherlock has made his point very clear. He will never be that weak creature again, that weak idiot who had let people do with him whatever they wanted. The only one who may still do that is his brother, the man he has given his heart to, knowing that Mycroft will always cherish and worship it. He is safest when he is where he is right now – in his brother’s arms.

He will never be anyone else’s nail again, so to speak.

Reluctantly he kisses Mycroft on the lips once more before he gets up. “I guess I shall leave you to your duties now. See you later.”

“Of course. Wait for me at my place, okay? I expect you to be laid out for me when I arrive.”

“Damn. Cleaned out, too?”

Mycroft licks his lips. “Oh yes. And then I will do some more cleaning. With my tongue,” he adds, as if there had been any doubt about what he was talking about.

Sherlock shudders. “Can’t wait, brother mine. Bye for now.”

“Bye. I love you.”

“Ditto, brother dear, ditto.”

When Sherlock leaves Mycroft’s office, he feels as if he was on cloud nine – and he doesn’t plan to ever leave it again.

The End 🔨

  
  



End file.
